


Fairy Lights

by VTsuion



Series: Mystery, Magic, and Other Twists in Reality [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27666860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: A cold winter's night in Sussex brings a mystery beyond even Holmes's powers of deduction. Also, a Holmesian fairy tale.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Mystery, Magic, and Other Twists in Reality [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149767
Comments: 17
Kudos: 43
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelindeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/gifts).



> All of my thanks go to [ancientreader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/profile) for being a wonderful, very thorough beta, who helped turn this into a worthy gift!

The winter wind howled and tugged at scarves and coats as though to pull us back out into the frigid afternoon. Holmes fought the cottage door closed behind us as I limped over the threshold. At last, after a final gust, it seemed to surrender, and the door banged shut. The air around us settled in silence, all the louder for its abruptness, as though the whole world was muffled in our cold, numb ears.

We had but a brief respite before we remembered our sodden clothes. Clumsy, numb fingers set about lifting frosty hats from our heads and unwound damp scarves from around our necks. Our coats and sweaters, not heavy enough in the chill of the uncommonly cold December afternoon, now felt leaden. The cold damp was pervasive; even without snow or rain, it crept in with the thick grey fog that had descended so abruptly upon the countryside.

I stumbled to the sitting room and fell upon the sofa, dimly aware that Holmes had made some excuse and departed for parts unknown - though not even he was foolhardy enough to brave the elements. My war wounds, old and new, were raw and aching, sensitive to even the most subtle change in the weather. I tried to recall the proper treatment: torturous stretches, which only proved themselves worthwhile in retrospect, but it was hard to even think of them as my tired limbs protested their very being.

I distantly heard the embers in the fireplace crackling to life. A warm weight fell upon my aching shoulders and a hot cup was pressed into my hands. My eyes fluttered open and I found myself face to face with none other than Sherlock Holmes, his keen features clouded with concern. I gave a slight shake of my head in some small attempt at reassurance, but he was not so easily dissuaded.

“It’s nothing, Holmes,” I endeavored to insist, “nothing more than the usual aches and pains. It’s much better already” - and that much, at least, was true.

“My faculties have not dimmed to such an extent,” Holmes retorted proudly, but a fond smile shone through.

Without another word, he sat down beside me beneath the blanket, drawing it even tighter around us to keep out any lingering chill in the air as it soaked up the warmth of the dancing fire. We huddled close together, so I could feel his heart beating against my side. Holmes made some attempt at massaging the cold out of my shoulder, but only succeeded at pressing my damp undershirt against my skin.

At last, Holmes gave up with a noise of frustration and the next thing I knew his icy fingers had worked their way under my shirt and nimbly pulled it aside. Not to be outdone, I, with perhaps a little less grace, did the same, so I could lean back against his chest and soak up all of the warmth he had somehow accumulated in his lithe figure. Any tension that remained melted away and I let out a sigh of contentment at being so near to my dear Holmes, a dearer friend to me than can be measured.

We existed in a cozy little world of our own, Holmes’s arms wrapped around me, keeping me close. We were ensconced in the sitting room, in a pool of golden firelight that held the creeping frost and early winter shadows at bay. The window was already iced with translucent white condensation, and, beyond it, Holmes’s beehives, asleep in the depths of winter, were shrouded in thick grey fog, which may have gone on forever as far as I could see. Not a breath appeared to stir.

“Yes, Watson,” Holmes remarked, his head resting on mine - he had followed my gaze out the window - “it is a curious sort of weather.”

I gave him a nudge to indicate that I very well knew that he was showing off, but he likewise knew that I never ceased to be impressed by him.

More soberly, I acknowledged, “I know it doesn’t do to be superstitious about such things, but...” I trailed off.

To my surprise, I felt Holmes nodding, his chin brushing past my hair. “The fog rolled in abruptly even for our charming English weather, and even I am not entirely immune to something ominous in the air, as though we were trespassers upon another’s domain. All psychological, of course” - he attempted a dismissive gesture under the blanket, but only succeeded at waving his hand across my thigh.

“Perhaps,” I acknowledged, but it was with a reluctance that surprised even myself. “But what of that wind, Holmes? It was so still when we went outside, and then, without any warning, it turned to a gale. And now it has settled again, as still as before. It can be nothing other than a coincidence, but it is curious, isn’t it?”

“Yes, suggestive.” He seemed pensive.

“Of what, Holmes?”

“Of allowing ourselves too much imagination.” I could envision his laughing smile.

“Yes, you’re right of course, Holmes. It seems so silly now, but I almost could have sworn that there was something hiding out there in the fog.” A shiver ran down my spine, and I insisted, “But that’s only nonsense.”

Holmes drew me closer still, holding me tight against his chest, warm and secure, as though he could hold me from any harm, as I knew he wished he could.

“I felt it too,” he confessed.

“Then it appears we have both allowed ourselves too much imagination.”

I adjusted myself so that I could embrace him in turn, settling my chin near the crook of his neck. His lips brushed the top of my head, and then he again rested his head on mine. I was warm and drowsy and quite comfortable, and when I did not doze off, I was content to simply rest and listen to the fire crackling in the hearth and Holmes’s steady breathing.

* * *

Late that night, well after we had retired to bed, I was drawn from my slumber by a faint noise in my ear, not coming from Holmes beside me. It was rather like a distant chanting, almost an ethereal song, if only I could make it out.

I surged into awareness and struggled drowsily upright, fighting against the sudden chill as I blinked the sleep from my eyes. The curtains had fluttered aside, so that I looked out upon the rolling fog. But it was nothing like the gloom of the day before. The ice crystals glistened in the night, as though illuminated from within, sometimes brighter or dimmer, but unerringly luminous.

I gently shook Holmes awake with an urgent whisper in his ear; “Sherlock, you must see this.”

He awoke with a groan of protest that sounded rather like my name. However, his attention was quickly arrested and he scrambled upright to stare out the window as I had done. I strained my ears, unsure if I could still make out the distant sound.

Holmes and I exchanged a glance, each of us as bewildered as the other. But I could see that the old spark had been kindled in his bright grey eyes, and he was not the only one who could not even think of sleep despite the lateness of the hour.

He offered me his hand to help me out of bed and we hastily changed into our warmest in the hope that the mysterious light in the fog would not vanish before we had the chance to investigate it. Out in the hall, we donned hats and boots and coats. Holmes graciously held open the door, and we ventured out into the swirling night.

As we stepped outside, a thousand lights seemed to suddenly flicker out and we were left in still, silent darkness, surrounded only by fog, lying close over the countryside in a thick blanket that eddied around the rolling hills.

And then with a whispered “Halloa!” Holmes gestured out into the distance. I followed his gaze just in time to see a glimpse of light before it vanished, and for but an instant I thought I heard a quiet sound.

Where the point of light had vanished, a soft glow remained, and it was not alone; the thick clouds around us were suffused with a faint light. The air was unnaturally still and somehow no longer so bitterly cold as it had been during the day, though perhaps it was the child-like wonder and excitement that kept us warm against the winter chill, as on many a winter morning when I had stomped out to see the world, once familiar, transformed into something strange and new by a fresh, shimmering blanket of snow. I could see Holmes’s eyes gleaming with exhilaration, reflecting back the dancing lights. We exchanged an uncontrollable grin at the mystery around us.

Arm-in-arm we wandered through the haze, by some unspoken agreement toward the brightest glow in the ever-shifting fog. Lights faded in and out of the clouds, though we could never quite see their source; always on the other side of a misty veil, their light only seen in sparkling echoes in the infinitesimal ice crystals drifting through the air. Again, I fancied I could hear something calling softly in the distance, drawing us onward, not only one voice, but a thousand, perhaps one for each gleam of light, not like any voices I had ever heard, in a wordless litany, just out of hearing.

Holmes and I kept close together as we ventured into this world so far from our own, in which the rules of logic and reason seemed to no longer apply. We marveled at the luminous, swirling vapors that ebbed and flowed around us, with each step expecting some strange new revelation, as though the ground might simply vanish from beneath our feet, leaving us to walk on air.

I heard Holmes quietly murmur, “An unique atmospheric phenomenon…”

“Could it be?” I breathed back.

“It must,” was his answer, but he was as wide-eyed as myself.

The glimmering light drew us up onto rocky slopes, slick with water and ice. For a terrifying moment, Holmes slipped against the icy ground, stumbling out of my grasp. My breath caught in my throat and my heart seemed to vanish from my chest in a dizzying instant, aware of what was occurring, but without the power to stop it.

It was only by a fortunate reflex that my arm sprang out of its own accord and caught him before he fell, nearly yanking me down after him. The ground raced nearer, but by some miracle we clung to each other and managed to hold each other upright.

We stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, remembering how to breathe. My heart hammered, and I wondered if I couldn’t hear Holmes’s frantically beating along with it.

As my shaky legs, sore from scrambling on the rocks, began to feel a little more steady, our embrace became more tender than panicked. It was remarkably peaceful out on the downs in the still, crisp air with not a soul for miles - if we were in the world we knew at all. I drew Holmes closer and he rested his forehead against mine.

In the distance I heard what sounded almost like an ethereal melody, beating in irregular time with the crashing ocean waves, much closer than I expected.

“Do you hear that - like music?” I asked quietly.

He let out a breathy chuckle. “Yes, and I fear I cannot pretend that it is only the waves.”

Around us, the fog glistened with iridescent light, like ice crystals shimmering in and out of the haze.

I could not say which of us was first to lean in, but whichever was not first shortly followed, and our lips, cold and clumsy as they were, met for a kiss. I felt his warm breath before we both pulled away, the world still sparkling around us, but it paled in comparison to Holmes himself, the lights dancing in his eyes.

Eventually, he gestured on - “Shall we?”

Arm-in-arm, holding on a little tighter as we braved the slippery ground, we continued onward, now down toward the water, where the curious lights and music beckoned.

We both stopped abruptly in our tracks a little ways from the edge of the downs, overlooking the ocean. My breath caught in my throat and Holmes beside me let out a hiss of astonishment.

Resting atop the waves was a thick layer of fog. Its swirling eddies caught the light of what appeared to be a thousand bright stars descended from the heavens, blinking in and out of the haze. Above the crashing of the waves, we could distinctly hear a sort of chanting music, unlike anything I had ever heard before or will likely ever hear again.

It had a strange beauty that seemed to call to me, to beckon me nearer with promises of adventure and glory; that all I had was nothing and anything I wished for could be found. I knew the rocky ground dropped off steeply to the sea only feet in front of me, but I had the feeling that if only I took the step the air would support my weight. I felt even lighter than the air, as though a gust of wind would be enough to sweep me off my feet - perhaps that was why it was all so still. And even for the stillness, the only thing that seemed to keep me from drifting off the ground, the only thing that felt solid in this world of light and air, the only thing that was real was Holmes’s hand in mine.

The twinkling lights rose up out of the fog, rolling up onto the land and out over the water - if we would not come to them, it seemed they would come to us. A burst of light appeared mere inches from my nose, and left me blinking as it danced away, leaving frost wherever its rays touched the ground.

It was Holmes, of course, who first broke the silent spell that seemed to hold us, with a sharp barking laugh that drew me back to Earth. “Of all things, fairies, Watson!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle as well. “It appears so, doesn’t it, Holmes. It is the solstice tonight.”

“I suppose that it is. Well, Watson, if you ever find I am growing too haughty, you need only remind me that there is still much in the world I cannot even begin to understand.”

“I doubt you will forget so quickly.”

“No, I imagine not.”

We drew closer together, holding each other even more tightly and sharing a little warmth. It was especially reassuring having Holmes to hold on to, for if I had been there alone, I would certainly have been enticed to drift out to sea by the glimmering lights and their entrancing song. I wondered how many young men they had drawn away from the shore in such a way - and if I had not in fact been among them in my youth.

I admitted as much; “I confess, they hold some sway over me.”

Holmes nodded. “And over me as well; to follow them out to sea and beyond.”

“But,” I added, “there is nowhere else that I would rather be than here, at your side.”

“Nor I.” Holmes took both my hands in his. I could see his breath as white steam in the air between us as he spoke, enraptured in his own way by the scene before us, though he seemed to have eyes only for me. “If you would consent to it, there is nothing more I desire than to remain here with you for the remainder of our days.”

“Holmes,” I replied - and then for emphasis, “Sherlock. After everything, I can but feel fortunate to share in such wonders” - I gestured at the strange, shimmering lights around us - “and to be able to share them with you is the greatest wonder of all.”

“John -” I could see a flush across Holmes’s sharp cheeks, and not just from the cold.

We both leaned in again for a kiss. Magic filled the very air around us.

As we pulled apart to stare again at the spectacle below, I had to ask, “Holmes, you’re certain that you’re not fae?”

Holmes laughed. “No, I believe brother Mycroft would have been able to discern a changeling.”

“One of your ancestors, perhaps?”

“And what of your ancestors, my dear Watson?” Holmes teased back.

“They may have been cursed by a fairy, with their fortunes.”

“Aha, and you were the one to break the curse!”

“Only thanks to you.”

I nestled into Holmes’s side and he slid an arm around my waist to hold me there as we stood, a little nearer than side by side, looking out on the shimmering fairy lights and listening to their enchanting song.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you requested both retirement era fluff and fairy tale, I found I just had to do both.

Once upon a time there was a wandering man who had lost his way. One day, he came upon a wizard, more learned than wise. The wizard offered him a place to stay the night, and the wandering man, with nowhere else to go, gratefully accepted. He stayed that night with the wizard and for many nights after. He marveled at the wizard’s craft and found himself enchanted by the wizard’s clever wit, and the wizard was in turn drawn to the kind and noble wandering man. Together they weathered storms and fought dragons, the wizard with his magic, and the wandering man with steady resolve.

The wizard, however, as many wizards do, delved deeper and deeper into the arcane arts, where mortals should seldom dare tread. Until one day, he slipped and fell from that great precipice of magic, leaving havoc in his wake. His hut lay in ruins. The wandering man emerged scathed, but alive. The wizard was gone.

With nothing left to keep him, the wandering man resumed his travels. He roamed far and wide, doing what he could to help those who crossed his path. Everywhere he went, he looked for the wizard, though he knew in his heart that he would not find him. He was gone, never to return.

The wandering man had stopped on the shore of a wide lake, when he saw a swan. He paused to watch it soar through the air, and land with a splash in the water. It seemed clumsy and new, but soon righted itself, and to the wandering man’s surprise, drifted toward the shore where he stood and almost seemed to look up at him with intelligent eyes, lined in black.

In all his travels, he had never seen a swan look with such purpose before, but he knew better than to dismiss it, as he had lived with a wizard and had learned that things are often not as they seem. And that is why, when the swan came to the shore and began to clumsily waddle after him, he made no show of surprise, and instead let the creature do as it willed, content that if it deigned to reveal its motives to him, it would do so in its own time. He only glanced back every so often to see if it had fallen behind or tired of him and flown off to rejoin its own kind, but whenever he looked, it was still there, following steadily behind.

When he stopped for the evening, the swan stopped too. It watched as he set up camp, and then, once he had settled, cautiously approached the fire until it was only a few feet away, and curled up, its head tucked in its wing. From so close, the wandering man could admire its sleek, soft feathers.

That night, the wizard appeared. He called to the wandering man by his name, but when they tried to embrace, they found they could not touch, but passed through each other, as though they were not of the same plane.

“What has become of you?” the wandering man asked.

But as he stepped back, he suddenly saw a resemblance between the man before him and the dark-eyed swan.

“Your own magic did this to you?” he asked, but he already somehow knew it was true. “There must be something I can do to break the spell!”

“I do not know,” the wizard confessed. “I only know that I cannot do it alone.”

When morning came, the wizard was gone, though the wandering man fancied he had awoken at the feeling of a parting kiss. But the swan remained, stretching its wings and preening its feathers before they set out again for the day. And so it was every day; at night the wandering man met the wizard in his dreams, and in the day he wandered with the swan always a pace or two behind, across open country, over the rolling hills, through thick woods, and up stark mountainous slopes. The seasons changed around them, most birds migrated away, but the swan remained always at the wandering man’s side, or curled up beside his fire.

Spring had come again when they came to the dark woods, where all manner of beasts dwelt. The woods could be traversed in a day by a careful traveler - and woe came to any who remained lost in the woods at night. The wandering man had charted his path, but the swan was slow and clumsy on the ground. It could not fly ahead and the wandering man would not leave it behind. And then a thick mist settled over the woods and by nightfall they were lost in the depths.

Despite the unseasonable chill, the wandering man did what he could to set up camp. He managed a small, sputtering fire from the least damp branches in a vain attempt to fend off the darkness. He sat by the fire through the night, the swan curled up beside it, listening to the distant sound of creatures stirring just out of sight in the low flog.

He had just begun to doze where he sat, when out of the darkness, he saw a pair of glowing yellow lights. He blinked back into full awareness as the lights loomed closer. And then out of the haze emerged a great, spectral beast, snarling and scratching at the ground with glowing claws, its phosphorescent teeth bared and its terrible eyes ablaze.

The wandering man stumbled to his feet and tried to warn the beast off with a flaming branch, but it feared neither man nor fire, and readied to lunge.

“Go!” the wandering man shouted at the swan, already awakened by the noise, shooing it away from the danger while he still could, his other hand still brandishing the torch for what little good it did.

But the swan remained. As the man backed away from the beast, the swan lowered its head, raised its feathers, and hissed.

The beast glanced toward it with its glowing eyes.

“No, fly away!” the man shouted, but to no avail, only earning himself the renewed ire of the beast.

He swung wildly, trying to knock it back, but it seemed not to feel his blows and the stick broke against its shimmering hide. He stumbled back again and his foot landed on a loose stick that slid beneath his feet. He fell backward, his arms raised in a feeble attempt to defend himself from the beast.

But it did not lunge, for at that very moment there was another sharp hiss and a screeching call as the swan lowered its neck and charged for the beast. Its beak grazed the beast’s side, eliciting a cry.

With a sweep of its great claw, the beast tossed the swan away before it could charge again.

The wandering man scrambled upright and ran to the swan’s side, ready to defend it from the beast with his bare arms if it came to that, whatever the cost may be. But the swan was no longer a swan, crumpled on the ground, but a man - a wizard.

The wizard, still torn and bleeding, with a final effort pushed himself upright just enough to face the beast one last time. The wandering man dropped to the wizard’s side and held him in as he threw a desperate burst of raw magic at the beast.

It was all he had left, but it was just enough to send the beast running as he collapsed into the wandering man’s arms.

But even as the beast fled into the night, they could not rejoice at their reunion. The wandering man gingerly helped the wizard lie down beside the fire. The wizard’s eyes were already falling shut, exhausted from the pain and lost blood - the wandering man could only hope that was all.

“Stay with me,” he did not beg as he washed away the blood that covered the wizard’s chest with what water he had. “I’ve lost you once - I will not lose you again.”

The wizard winced at the chill, but was too weak to make any further protest. Still, he managed to reach out a hand - no longer a wing - and rest it on the wandering man’s hand in a silent reassurance that he was not ready to leave yet.

When the blood was washed away, the wandering man could see the deep scratches in the wizard’s chest, glowing faintly on the edges. For the swan they may have been fatal, but with care, the wizard could recover.

The wandering man gently propped the wizard upright to wind what cloth he could gather tightly around his chest to stop the bleeding and bundled the wizard in his heaviest cloak to stave off the cold night air. Together they huddled through the night by the glowing fire, the wizard wrapped in the wandering man’s arms.

Thankfully no more beasts came.

In the morning, the wandering man found not a swan, but a wizard sleeping at his side, still wounded, but himself and tangibly so. With the night’s mists cleared, the wandering man easily found their path again and by midday, he and the wizard had stumbled out of the dark woods. Together, they lay out on the grass, the wizard leaning against the wandering man’s chest as they savored the bright rays of the sun.

“The curse is broken?” the wandering man asked.

“Yes,” the wizard said, “thanks to you.”

“How? It was you who fought off that vicious beast.”

“Love,” he said simply, and then with a smile, “Isn’t that how all curses are broken?”

The wandering man could only smile back and hold the wizard closer to his chest.

Eventually, they wandered on from the dark woods. The wizard’s wounds slowly healed and his magic returned, though the faintly glowing lines across his chest remained as a reminder of what had passed.

They crossed new lands, braving even fiercer storms and more terrible dragons, until they came to a place by the sea, where, together they built a new hut. And it is said that if you go to the land by the sea, you can still find the wizard and the wandering man in their little hut, always happy to take in a weary traveler.


End file.
